


Help Wanted

by GettinGrimey



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Nanny, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Bisexual Rick Grimes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Fluff, Found Family, Hurt Rick Grimes, Jealous Negan (Walking Dead), Jealous Shane Walsh, Lies, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Nanny Negan, Negan Being Negan (Walking Dead), Past Lori Grimes/Rick Grimes, Protective Negan (Walking Dead), Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-06-19 06:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15504567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GettinGrimey/pseuds/GettinGrimey
Summary: Rick, a recent widower, cattle rancher and father of two, finds himself pressed for help when his live-in nanny of nearly a year marries suddenly and moves away.Negan, an out of work, love-'em-and-leave-'em player who’s had his eye on Rick for quite some time, disguises himself as the perfect nanny, expecting to win his way right into the cowboy’s pants.But what he doesn't expect, is the entire family, winning their way right into his heart.





	1. Chapter 1

“I wish we could get my kind of soda for once,” Negan grumbled, shoving both hands deep inside the pockets of his jeans as he strolled alongside Simon’s squeaky-wheeled grocery cart through the crowded supermarket.

 

Simon stopped to grab a bag of corn chips and a jar of spicy bean dip, tossing them in heedlessly on top of he rest of his items. “We?” he questioned, pinching his dark bushy eyebrows together with a smug, self-satisfied grin. “You got a mouse in your pocket?” He unzipped one of the pockets on the front of Negan’s leather jacket, taking a quick peek inside before his hand was smacked away. “Who is _we_ anyway? Last time I checked, you were living in _my_ house, sleeping on _my_ couch, and eating _my_ food.”

 

“Aw, don’t throw that shit in my face again!” Negan thundered, unaffected by the half dozen or so heads spinning around to look at him. “I’ve been out here busting both my fucking nuts looking for work.” His chest puffed and deflated with an aggravated breath, tossing both hands up in the air. “The jobs are out there, Simon. But it’s hell when you’re told at every goddamned interview you go to that you’re either overqualified or underqualified. I’m _trying_.”

 

After grabbing the rest of their groceries—two stacks of frozen dinners and a couple six packs of Bud Light—they headed up front to check out.

 

“Well looky who’s here,” Simon teased, nudging a still-sulking Negan in the arm with his elbow. “The only ass you _haven’t_ managed to tap in Carroll County.”

 

Negan looked up, his dick instantly coming to life, knocking against his zipper at the very sight of him. He had seen this guy around on countless occasions, but he’d never been lucky enough to talk to him. Hell, he’d never been this close to him before.

 

God, he was gorgeous. He was tall, hale and hearty—slim through the hips, but his thighs were thick and sturdy, stressing the seams of his dark-washed jeans. The brim of his black cowboy hat shadowed half of his face, but the half he could see was rugged and chiseled, covered in a thick jacket of short, dark bristles

 

_Damn._

 

Negan kept his eyes glued to him, watching his every move as he turned around, walking over to the large bulletin board, pinning a Help Wanted sign up with an unused thumbtack. “I wish I had a fucking swing like that in my backyard,” he joked, his eyes shifting back and forth like a pendulum, tracking the natural bob and sway of his ass as he walked out through the automatic doors.

 

“You don’t even have a backyard,” Simon reminded him, his dark moustache stretching with a laugh at his expense. “Come on,” he clapped his hand over his shoulder. “Why don’t you go see what Marlboro Man needs help with while I pay for this shit… _again._ ”

 

Hanging amid the clutter of other announcements—tractors, vehicles and houses for sale, lost pets and pets found, estate sales and dance lessons—was the glossy, red and white sign. Negan ran his fingers over the Sharpie marker writing, smoothing them over the entire surface, picking up the fingerprints that the cowboy had left behind. He had nice handwriting, round and intelligent. You could actually read it.

 

**Live-In Nanny Needed**

**Single Father - 2 Kids**

**Housekeeping - Shopping - Cooking**

**$1,200 Per Week + Room and Board**

**Driver’s Licence, Clean Driving Record, Past Experience Required**

 

**Contact Rick Grimes to Apply**

 

 _Rick Grimes, huh?_ Negan thought to himself, taking his phone out, adding the number provided to his contact list for the hell of it. As he stood there, studying the frilly little loops he added to some of his letters, he felt himself growing jealous. Stupid, he _knew_ it was stupid, but some lucky asshole was going to be paid—and paid rather well—to live in the same house with this man. _They_ would be there when he came home from work to put warm food in his belly. _They_ would make him smile by making his kids happy. _They_ would wash his laundry. _They_ would strip his bed, making sure he had a clean place to lay his pretty head at night.

 

_Why can’t that be me?_

 

***

 

“Why _can’t_ it be me, Simon?” Negan asked coolly, peeling the label off of his half-empty bottle of beer as he stared at the TV from the couch.

 

“The hell you talking about?”

 

He picked his phone up, showing him the snapshot of the want ad from the grocery store. “I could do all that shit. Give me one good reason why this couldn’t it be me?”

 

Simon coughed up a mouthful of beer, dribbling it all over himself and floor as he continued to laugh. “I’ll give you _two_ good reasons. One… you don’t know the first fucking thing about kids. And two… you can’t cook or clean to save your goddamn neck.”

 

“Pfft,” Negan scoffed, rolling his eyes at the man beside him. “What the hell is there to know about taking care of rugrats, anyway? You stick the little bologna eaters in front of the goddamn TV and boom... the little fuckers are as happy as a pig in a peach orchard. And who says I can’t cook?”

 

“Uh,” Simon looked at him with huge, incredulous eyes. “The fire extinguisher under my sink says you can’t cook. Are you forgetting about the time you attempted to make a grilled cheese sandwich? Resulting in you damn near burning my fucking trailer down to the concrete slab.”

 

“I told you,” Negan said, raising his voice. “There was a…”

 

 _“A short in the burner,”_ Simon chimed in, mocking him. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He finished his beer, popping the cap off of another bottle. “Forget about it, Negan. It ain’t gonna happen. This guy is serious. Past experience required.”

 

“Come on,” Negan narrowed his eyes, a playful smirk thinning his lips. “I can _easily_ find someone to act as a reference for me. Someone to tell this guy how good I was with his kids. How emaculate I kept his home. How happy he was with my services until he moved up north with his company.”

 

“Nope,” Simon swallowed another gulp of beer. “He’s probably already had fifty calls for this job.”

 

“ _Please_. It’ll get me out of your hair and off of your couch.”

 

Finally, Simon gave a reluctant sigh and nodded his head.

 

Negan pumped his fists in the air, his stomach suddenly full of knots as he swiped through his contacts and hit call.

 

_“Hello.”_

 

Oh, God. Negan nearly dropped the phone when he heard his voice. It was deep, slightly raspy and stupidly sexy. “I’m calling about your ad for the live-in nanny.”

 

***

 

“Carl!” Rick was running through the house, picking up baby toys and comic books, an armload of dirty clothes tucked under one arm while he straightened the cushions and pillows on the furniture with the other. “Carl!” Rick jumped when he turned around, the tall lanky teenage boy standing less then two feet behind him. “Why didn’t you answer me? Help me get this house halfway decent. I’ve got an interview with a possible nanny in fifteen minutes.”

 

“Tonight?” Carl whined, obviously not happy about this situation. “We don’t need a nanny, Dad. I’m more than capable of taking care of Judith.”

 

“We’ve been over this, Carl.” Rick squeezed the bridge of his nose, holding it, adding a little more pressure until he felt some much-needed relief from the tension headache that was making both sides of his skull throb. “I need your help on the ranch right now. We got over six-hundred feet of damaged fence we gotta get fixed. Merle’s coming by tomorrow to negotiate a price on a hundred head of cattle. And I got a hundred more that have to be tagged and vaccinated by the end of the week.” He put one hand on his hip, resting the other on his son’s shoulder. “Me and Shane and Jim, we just can’t handle it all by ourselves.”

 

“But—”

 

“You’re a damn good big brother… but you just can’t fill Carol’s shoes. There’s more to it than just babysitting. There are meals that have to be prepared. I work hard. I need something besides a cold sandwich when I get home.” He dropped the baby toys and comic books on the bar, cradling the pile of dirty clothes up against his chest. “Then there’s the laundry and the housework. I gotta sleep sometime, Carl. I washed and dried clothes until one o’clock this morning, and my alarm went off at four. I’m tired, son. We need someone to help us. Nobody else has answered the ad. The guy who called gave me a good reference. Had nothing but praise for the man.”

 

The two of them froze when the doorbell rang. Dammit, he’s early. Figures. Rick took one last look around the house. Oh well. There wasn’t anything he could do about the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink, now. And he didn’t even want to think about the dried, sticky juice and milk spill speckles all over the kitchen floor, which hadn’t seen a mop in days. _This guy might as well know what he was getting himself into from the get-go,_ he thought.

 

He lifted his hat and ran a hand through his hair, forcing his lips into a smile after a heavy sigh. “Let’s hope this works out,” he said softly, walking toward the door. “Grab your sister out of the highchair. And wipe the SpaghettiOs off of her face before you bring her into the living room.”

 

Saying a little silent prayer, he reached down, turned the brass handle, and opened the door.

 

“Well _hello_ there.” Negan was doing his best to maintain his cool, but he could already feel his lips and fingertips starting to go numb as he stared into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen in his life. Eyes like someone took a knife and cut through the darkest rain cloud, revealing slivers of the bluest, brightest sky on the face of the earth.

 

Rick smiled, already impressed with his force of personality. “You must be Negan. Come on in.”

 

He stepped over the threshold into the beautiful wooden trussed foyer. There was a warm fire roaring in the cozy stacked stone fireplace in the living room—a fireplace that took up an entire wall, rising all the way up to the cathedral ceiling.

 

“You’ve got a beautiful home, Rick. May I call you Rick?”

 

“Of course.” Rick invited him to sit down in one of the oversized chairs, taking a seat himself on the matching sofa. He rested his hands between his knees, knocking them back and forth as he tried to think of where to start. Luckily, Carl came into the living room, carrying his rambunctious soon-to-be ten month old little girl, solving that problem for him.

 

“Who is this little angel?”

 

Carl sat her down in Rick’s lap. “This is Judith.” She looked at Negan, chewing nervously on the tip of her finger before curling into her daddy’s chest, hiding her face against his shirt out of shyness. “It’ll take her a couple of minutes, but she’ll warm up to you. This here is my son, Carl.”

 

“Nice to meet you.”

 

Carl acknowledged him briefly before flopping down on the other end of the couch, throwing his leg over the leather arm and pulling his phone out to text one of his friends. Negan looked over at him, hearing the shutter snap on his camera. There was already a tension brewing between the two of them.

 

Judith, finding a sudden burst of courage in front of the new guest in the house, straightened her legs on her daddy’s lap, standing up, knocking his hat off of his head.

 

 _Wow,_ Negan thought to himself, captivated by the full head of soft-looking brown curls on top of Rick’s head. He’d always wondered what kind of hair was concealed under that big black hat, thinking maybe he had a partially bald head or a receding hairline at best. But no, everything about this man was simply gorgeous, right down to the little flecks of silver in his beard.

 

Rick quickly smoothed his hair back as he tried to prevent the baby from chewing on the dusty brim. “So,” he smiled, looking over the coffee table. “Do you think you can handle everything I’m asking of you? The cooking, the cleaning… taking care of this little hat eating monster?” He tickled Judith’s little round tummy, making her giggle and wiggle in his arms.

 

Negan stood up and walked over to the couch. “Come here, darlin’.” He scooped Judith up in his arms, giving her a tiny kiss on the nose before tossing her up in the air, making her squeal with pure joy. “I know I can handle it.”

 

Rick breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “And you said you can cook, right? What are your specialties?”

 

Negan sat down between Rick and Carl, bouncing Judith on his leg, his knee rubbing against Rick’s every so often. “I’ve been told my Chicken Parmesan is out of this world. _Shit. Think of where you are Negan. This is a cattle rancher. He’s a cowboy for crying out loud._ But… I sure can whip up a mean meatloaf. And my chicken fried steak has won blue ribbons in every fair I’ve ever entered. _What? The only thing you know how to cook is grilled cheese… and you can’t even do that without starting a goddamn fire. Stop talking, dumbass._

 

Rick swallowed a mouthful of saliva, his words making a very strong impression on his palate. “God, that all sounds so good. I’m starving.” He swallowed again, his stomach starting to talk louder than he was. “You think you could start tonight? Maybe cook up one of those meals you mentioned.”

 

Okay. Now it was time to panic. _Don’t say it. Don’t say it._ “Sure.” _You idiot._

 

“Great!” Rick took his wallet out, handing Negan a hundred dollar bill. “Go get whatever you need from home for the night, and buy whatever you need from the grocery store. I’ll give Judy her bath and get her to sleep while you’re gone. Welcome home.”

 

***

 

Negan went back to Simon’s and packed his overnight bag, wanting to puke in it as he drove toward the store.

 

This was it. Rick would find out everything tonight. He would see that he was nothing more than a swindeling, lying ass con artist as soon as he put that plate of inedible roadkill down in front of him. There’s no way he’d have a chance with him after that. _Shit._

 

The light in front of him turned red. He stopped, gripping the steering wheel as he waited for green. Nervously, he tapped his fingers on the gearshift, trying his damnedest to come up with a plan. Maybe he should just go back home. Take the man’s hundred bucks and keep sleeping on Simon’s couch. Rick was just some guy. So what if he never got to sleep with him.

 

Ah, but his mind kept going back to those eyes. Damn. Those eyes, those hips, those thighs and those lips. And that ass. God, what an ass. His dick was growing rock hard in his jeans just thinking about him. He’d do anything to bed that cowboy. Anything.

 

He looked to his right. _Holy shit._ It was an Italian restaurant. He’d eaten there a long time ago. Back when he could afford such luxuries. If his memory served him correctly, this restaurant served the best Chicken Parmesan. Could he really get away with it, he wondered. Could he somehow sneak their food in and pass it off as his? There was only one way to find out. He put his blinker on, turning into the crowded parking lot.

 

***

 

The big ranch house was quiet when Negan got back. Carl let him in. Rick and Judith were nowhere to be seen. Without a hitch, he carried his take-out bags to the kitchen, hidden in the middle of his grocery bags full of salad ingredients and store-bought garlic bread.

 

He got to work, boiling big pots of water, creating steam, throwing in a little garlic here and there, fabricating an illusion of a home cooked Italian meal. While that was happening, he washed up all of Rick’s dirty dishes, even taking a mop to the sticky spots in the floor while he was at it. Hell, this cleaning thing was easy.

 

When he decided enough time had passed, he plated up the pasta, placing a beautifully cooked chicken cutlet on top of each plate. Giving his salad a quick toss, he set the table—an impressive display if he did say so himself—then set out to find Rick.

 

He headed down the dark hallway, looking inside every room until he found the one he was looking for. Judith was in her crib. She was sound asleep in her little pink pajamas. He smiled. She was so sweet. So innocent. So—

 

The sound of someone breathing in the dark corner of the nursery caught his attention. It was Rick. He was out cold in the rocking chair, his arms wrapped securely around a big stuffed, floppy-eared bunny.

 

He looked exhausted. Looked like he could really use the sleep. But Negan hadn’t just busted his ass pretending to cook this meal for nothing. Oh no. This was his ticket inside that beautiful man’s pants. He wasn’t about to let him ruin it by sleeping through it.

 

“Rick,” he whispered softly, gently patting him on the thigh. Dear God, it was so firm. Solid. “Wake up. Dinner’s ready.”

 

***

 

Seated across the table, Negan clasped his hands together, chewing on his knuckles anxiously as he waited on Rick to take a bite. Carl had already dug in. He didn’t say whether it was good or bad, but his opinion didn’t really matter. He held his breath when Rick picked up his knife, cutting through the cheese-smothered chicken, twirling his fork around the pasta, picking up a bite of both and lifting it to his mouth.

 

“Mmm.”

 

 _Yes._ _Yes!_ He had gotten away with it. Negan celebrated his huge victory silently as he watched Rick’s eyes slip shut, sliding his fork back and forth over his tongue, moaning with his mouth full as if he were in the middle of some food-induced orgasm. “Do you like it?” Negan asked, waiting with bated breath for a more verbal confirmation.

 

“I love it,” Rick replied, shoveling another big bite onto his fork with a crusty piece of bread. “This is probably— no. This is _definitely_ the best thing I’ve ever put into my mouth.”

 

Negan shifted in his chair. His jeans were getting tighter. His shaft, now running down his leg, pressing hard against his thigh, was getting thicker. He lifted his hips just a little bit. Damn. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to come in his jeans right here at the dinner table.

 

“I can’t wait to taste what you come up with next.”

  
_Fuck._ Negan gripped the edge of the table, his cock convulsing with a mind of its own, spasming inside the leg of his jeans as he felt his warm, thick release drip down over his kneecap. _Soon, cowboy. Soon you’ll be eating out of the palm of my hand._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been 84 years...
> 
> I am so sorry guys. I didn't mean to be gone so long. 
> 
> I always thought that shingles was something you could have ONLY if you were much older. 
> 
> Wrong. 
> 
> I've also always thought that shingles was "just a rash".
> 
> WRONG WRONG WRONG. 
> 
> Oh my face. :( My waist. :(
> 
> I honestly can't recall ever being so sick or in so much pain for so long. But I think the worst is behind me now. 
> 
> Hopefully I can get back into the swing of things and get chapter 18 of Like Nobody's Watching out soon.
> 
> I've missed you guys! *HUGS AND KISSES*

Wrist-deep in a sink full of hot soapy water, Negan rooted around and pulled another dirty dish out of the suds—washing it, rinsing it, adding it to the one of the stacks he’d already washed. He looked up to check the time in the living room, an excuse, really, to see if the sulky teenage boy sitting on the couch was still staring at him. He was. With his slumped over posture, both arms folded tightly across his chest, and that  _ kiss-my-ass _ scowl hanging heavy off of his face, he was starting to piss him off.

 

Under normal circumstances, Negan would have simply squared up with some punk kid throwing all of that attitude and stink-eye his way. But, if he was going to have any kind of shot at getting what he came here for, then he needed to stay on  _ everyone’s  _ good side. After he succeeded in getting that cowboy’s ass all red, spread and fucked in a bed, well, then he could just split. Then his son could stare daggers at the next nanny all he wanted.

 

A handful of silverware slipped out of Negan’s wet hands, clanking and clunking to the bottom of the sink as Rick, fresh from the shower, padded around the corner wearing nothing but a pair of snug, gray and white boxer briefs, a fluffy, light green towel thrown unceremoniously over one of his bare shoulders. 

 

“I was getting ready to go to bed,” he said, twirling a cotton swab around in one of his ears. “Figured we should go over your schedule first.”

 

Negan nodded with his head down, trying to keep his mind off of the smell of his soap and shampoo lingering in the air, pretending not to notice the way the white cotton stretched over the curve of his ass. No, he was determined to keep working, even with the unfair disadvantage that was suddenly thrown in his face. “We can do that. I’m almost finished here.” 

 

He blinked a few times, squeezing both eyes shut for a moment, but it was just so hard to stop his gaze from wandering over all of that available flesh. Damn if he wasn’t the perfect blend of beauty and rugged masculinity. His tanned skin glistened with water droplets under the glare of the bright kitchen lights. Sun-freckles dotted his broad shoulders. His chest and lower abdomen was covered in a light dusting of dark brown hair. 

 

He told himself not to, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t stop his sight from dropping, his peripheral vision anchoring onto the hefty bulge nestled in front of those powerful thighs of his. God what a contrast, the sight of all of that soft, cuddled weight, when the rest of his body was so firm and solid. He found himself wondering how good it would feel cradled in the palm of his hand.

 

“Did you drive the trash down to the road,” he asked, looking in Carl’s direction as he tunneled his fingers through his wet hair, detangling the mess of curls as it dripped onto his shoulders, running down the middle of his back.

 

_ The trash.  _ That hurled him back to reality. Negan could instantly feel the small beads of sweat accumulating on his face, stippling his upper lip and brow with moisture. He had forgotten all about shoving the Olive Tree restaurant bags and takeout containers behind the trash can.  _ Goddammit.  _

 

“No,” Carl grumbled, his ice cold eyes still locked on Negan. “Isn’t that why you hired  _ him?  _ Let him fucking do it.”

 

“You know, the kid’s absolutely right.” Negan quickly dried his hands off on a dish towel, throwing it on the counter as he bent down to pull the overflowing wastebasket out from under the sink. “I’ll have it out of here in—”

 

_ “No.” _ Rick held his hand up, silencing Negan as he cut his eyes back to the boy in the living room. “If you’ll remember correctly, that’s what I pay you for. You get paid for the work you do around this house. Taking out the trash, keeping your room picked up, and helping out on the ranch when I need you.” His brow dipped, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he clenched his teeth. “But what you don’t get paid for, is acting like a disrespectful little shit. Not to me. Not to Negan. So you haul your ass up off of that couch and make yourself useful.” He stood there, studying his son for a moment, bringing both hands up to rest on his cotton-clad hips. “And let me tell you something else. Unless you apologize to him for running that smart mouth of yours, you’ll be doing it  _ without  _ your allowance this week.”

 

Carl sat defiantly in his seat for a moment, still staring as he angrily bounced one leg—toes on the floor, his heel rising and falling in a quick, irritated rhythm. When he noticed that the bulging veins in his father’s neck and forehead weren’t going away, he shoved himself off of the sofa, his black and white Converse squeaking his annoyance across the hardwood floor with every step he took. 

 

After collecting the trash out from under the counter, bumping the corner of the cabinet door against Negan’s leg out of spite, he yanked the tractor keys off of the hook and stormed out the back door.

 

Rick looked down, embarrassment and anger spreading across his face, tinting his cheeks a deep shade of pink. “I’m sorry about that,” he smiled, a small dent, not quite a dimple, creasing the right side of his face. “He’s been—he’s been a little moody since his mom...” He took a deep breath, blowing it out as he stared up at the ceiling. 

 

“It’s okay, Rick.” Negan relaxed, managing to push the anxiety over the trash to the back of his mind. Carl was so angry, he didn’t seem to notice what he carried out. “Being in this line of work for the past fifteen years, I’ve dealt with a temperamental teenager or two. Just give it a little time. Carl and I, why we're gonna be best friends before you know it.”

 

Conjuring up a small, tired laugh, Rick nodded his head and scratched at the wet hair on the back of his neck, his eyes dark and puffy with exhaustion. “Come sit down.” He tossed a notebook and an envelope down on the table as he dropped his weight into one of the chairs with a heavy sigh. “I get up at four o’clock,” he noted, opening the notebook, underlining his handwriting with the tip of his finger. “Judith and Carl, they’ll sleep like a couple of rocks until you wake them up for breakfast.”

 

Negan nodded, his eyes scanning the notebook, taking notice of all the pencil scribbles on the paper, knowing every word of it meant he’d be working his ass off.

 

“Breakfast is at eight sharp. Me, Shane and Jim, we come up to the house and eat with the kids every morning—Monday through Saturday. Shane and Jim get Sundays off. I’ll  _ try  _ to make things as easy as I can on you that day, too. No promises. I work seven days a week.”

 

 _Damn,_ Negan thought to himself, cringing at the idea of having no time to himself. It was starting to look like he’d bitten off a little more than he could chew this time.

 

“Carl has school, so you and Judy will have to do the shopping in the morning. We’re out of just about everything. I’ll start you a list and you can just add to it.” He pulled a new debit card out of the notebook, laying it on top of the envelope with his weekly pay inside, sliding both across the table. “Keep this card on you. Buy whatever you need for the house. You can use either of my trucks except for the black one. I use that one for work. Keys are hanging over there by the... ”

 

Negan listened to him, enjoying the velvety depths of his slow baritone drawl as he rambled on and on, going over every little detail of the crazy schedule he was expected to follow, wondering what tomorrow would entail. Better yet, he wondered if he would still  _ be here  _ this time tomorrow. 

 

He didn’t know how any of this was going to pan out, the thought of all of the housework, handling a baby on his own for the first time, having to deal with Carl and his  _ who-pissed-in-your-fucking-cornflakes  _ attitude, reminding himself that he lied about possessing the expertise to do any of it. 

 

But one look across the table, one glimpse at those sleepy, blue, bedroom eyes in front of him and he was throbbing again, aching against his zipper, making his complete lack of skill and knowledge with regards to any of this nanny business completely irrelevant. 

 

“I prefer my bed sheets dried out on the…” Rick stopped talking long enough to yawn, long and loud, rubbing his watery eyes, smudging one of them in a ring of silvery gray with the pencil dust on his fingers. “... the clothesline,” he finished with a heavy exhale, half-sighing, half-laughing. “Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night. My body is screaming at me, reminding me it’s been a long time since four o’clock this morning.” He yawned again, covering his wide mouth in embarrassment, bowing his head to hide it. “God, I’m sorry.”

 

Negan reached out, dropping his hand on top of the notebook. “Why don’t you just leave this here with me,” he suggested, flipping through the edges of the paper with his thumbnail. “You go get some sleep. I can study over it tonight and, if you need to, we can talk more about it over breakfast.” 

 

***

 

The high-pitched twitter of the bedside alarm clock woke Negan with a jarring start. Without looking, he reached toward it, fumbling around on the table with his fingers. Unable to find the snooze button, he pounded the top of it with the side of his fist until the offensive noise finally stopped. 

 

With a heavy groan, he flopped himself over and buried his face in his pillow, hiding his eyes from the broken slivers of orange sneaking in around the edges of the wood slat blinds covering his windows. He felt as if he’d only just fallen asleep after tossing and turning half the night, his thoughts darting from Rick, to the day ahead ahead of him, and back again. 

 

The sun was just coming up, but Rick already had two hours of hard work under his belt. With the big ranch house whisper quiet, the dull sound of work horses and cattle hooves pounding the ground in the distance played a low, constant and soothing beat in his ears. As the rhythm played on, it wasn’t long before he felt himself being lulled back toward a deep sleep. 

 

His bloodshot eyes popped back open less than ten minutes later when his other alarm clock went off. Letting out another groan, he rolled over and rubbed his eyes, swinging both legs out of bed, finding the braided rug under his bare feet. “I’m coming, Judy, I’m coming. Hold your horses, cowgirl.”

 

Toting Judith down the hall on his hip, Negan stretched the short sleeve of his t-shirt out, using it to wipe her chubby tear-soaked cheeks and runny nose dry. “Your daddy’s a big fibber,” he whispered, tiptoeing past Carl’s closed bedroom door. “He told me you would sleep ‘til breakfast time.”

 

As he placed her in the highchair, he could feel something cold, something wet making his shirt stick to his side. “What the fu…?” Finding a dry spot on the hem, he tugged the fabric up close to his nose, sniffing the wet area carefully before throwing the baby an accusatory look as she waited on her morning bottle. “Damn,” he mumbled, blotting his soaked tee with a handful of paper towels, Judith staring up at him, watching him closely as she chewed hungrily on her little fingers. “You piss like a racehorse, little girl.”

 

Opening the fridge, he reached in and grabbed one of the premade bottles of formula, sticking the clear nipple between his teeth, letting her bottle dangle from his mouth as he pulled her back out of the seat. “Let’s get you changed,” he muttered, trying to talk around the mouthful of silicone as he held the baby girl a good foot and half away from him on the walk back to the nursery. 

 

Flipping the light on with his elbow, he laid her down on the changing table and popped the cold bottle into her mouth as he studied her complicated pajamas. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.” The buttons started at the top, went all the way down the front before they forked, travelling down the inseam of both legs. “How in the hell does this thing work?” 

 

***

 

Negan walked back toward the kitchen with his head held high, carrying a much happier—and much drier little girl in his arms. “You look so  _ pretty _ ,” he boasted, tossing her empty bottle into the sink before adjusting the headband around her head. She was all decked out in a puffy-sleeved, ruby red chiffon dress, a pair of snow white tights with a thick row of frilly ruffles over her freshly-diapered bottom, and a flashy pair of matching ballet flats. 

 

“Can you keep a secret?” he asked, sitting down with Judith on his lap at the big farmhouse table, finding his friend’s work number in the contacts of his cell. “We’re gonna knock your daddy’s cowboy boots off with a big home cooked breakfast this morning,” he whispered, bouncing her up and down on his knees. “Yes we are. But we’re gonna let uncle Simon do the cooking for us.”

 

Simon worked the morning shift at a popular truckstop diner known for its hearty, Southern-style breakfast menu. Though it took some major ass-kissing and the promise of cold, hard cash, he finally agreed to have the large order of food Negan asked for ready in about thirty to forty-five minutes.

 

“You like that?” The faster Negan bounced his knee, the louder Judith giggled. Between the sounds she was making and those wide-mouthed, melt-your-heart smiles she was flashing, it wasn’t long before he was laughing along with her.

 

“Okay, princess.” He stood up, tossing Judith up above his head and catching her, wanting to squeeze one more laugh out of her before they made the twenty minute drive to Tallapoosa. “I could play with you all day kiddo, but we better get—”

 

The baby made a funny noise, a sound somewhere between a burp and a gurgle.  _ Are you okay?  _ sat on the tip of Negan’s tongue, but before he had time to form the thought into words, she made the noise again, this time, all of her morning bottle coming up with it, covering his shirt, his pants, and her pretty red dress. As he stood there, the warm baby vomit dribbling off the front of his clothes, pooling into small white puddles in the kitchen floor, he had to give himself a little credit. He was handling this a lot better than he ever imagined he would.

 

He looked down at her little round face and smiled. “Pissing all over me wasn’t enough for you?” he teased, wiping the curdled formula off of her lips and chin with the pad of his thumb. “Huh? You had to puke on me, too? Is that all you got?”

 

She looked up, staring back at him, her expression changing, her face turning blood red. As she she kicked her legs, squirming and wiggling in his arms, the rank smell hit Negan’s nose.

 

“Goddammit,” he gagged, his eyes watering from the stench. “I was joking!”

 

***

 

The long hectic morning had definitely taken its toll on Negan. Between Judith’s diaper catastrophes and her upset stomach, taking a ten month old grocery shopping made his diaper duty from hell seem more like a stroll in the park. It was like she had eight arms, grabbing everything within reach from her seat in the grocery cart, resulting in a destroyed display of paper towels, and leaving the produce department in complete shambles—a warzone of apples, oranges and several dozen cantaloupes littering the floor. 

 

He was sitting on the couch with his feet propped up on Rick’s oversized leather ottoman, resting his eyes for a minute, an equally exhausted Judith laying sprawled out on his chest and stomach. “You better wake up,” he whispered, rolling his wrist over to check the time, his mouth stretching wide with a big yawn. “We gotta take lunch out to your daddy.”

 

The small crew of hungry ranchers gorged themselves on his diner-made breakfast this morning, none of them suspecting a thing. And Rick, well he didn’t hold back with the compliments about  _ his  _ cooking either. He was hoping for the same results with the cheesesteak sandwiches that he and Judy picked up from some mom-and-pop type dive on the way home from the store.

 

Holding Judith in one arm, he used the other to grab an oven mitt, pulling the warm, foil-wrapped sandwiches out of the oven, dropping them into a picnic basket with a half gallon of sweet tea, and a thermos of ice cold lemonade.

 

“You wanna drive?” he asked, climbing into the driver’s seat of a golf cart with the baby on his lap.

 

***

 

“Come on, man. You know you need this as bad as I do.” 

 

“Get off of me, Shane. I gotta get this damn thing fixed. That hay’s not gonna cut itself.”

 

Negan stopped at the side of the barn, gulping at the heavy lump suddenly rising in his throat. Overhearing a private conversation he wished he hadn’t, he slumped against the building, trying calmly to adjust himself to its revelation.  _ Rick and Shane?  _ He met Shane at breakfast, Jim too. But he’d made his mind up how he felt about Shane from the minute he strolled in the front door, taking the seat at the head of Rick’s kitchen table, a strong taste of dissatisfaction worming its way into his gut. He wasn’t sure why at the time, the man hadn’t said more than two words to him. But now, now there wasn’t a doubt in his mind.

 

Finding a small crack between the weathered planks of red barn wood, he watched as Shane took Rick’s hat off, crowding him from behind as he slid his arms around his waist, pulling the front of his shirt out of his jeans, sucking noisily on the back of his neck. Negan could feel his teeth gnash together, a headache already starting at the base of his skull as he bit down in rage. 

 

_ “Shane,” _ Rick sighed, rolling his head back, his body noticeably beginning to give in to temptation. “We can’t keep doing this,” he breathed. “It doesn’t feel right.”

 

Shane ran a hand up the side of Rick’s neck, pushing the sweat-damp curls out of the way, his mouth following his hand. “That’s not what you said last week,” he whispered, tentatively tasting the salty skin of his neck, moving toward his ear, nipping and nibbling on his earlobe. “You said it felt—”

 

“That was a mistake,” Rick argued, his mouth falling open, his chest rising and falling in shallow, unsteady breaths. “A one time— _ oh _ —a one time mistake. It never should’ve happened. We—we shouldn’t—” whatever he was going to say died in the cool breeze of the barn, his voice straining with desire, want, nearly choking him as Shane’s hand dropped lower, cupping him through the rough material of his jeans, kneading him, rolling him around in his palm.

 

Judith had grown bored of watching a row of little black ants as they marched along in a tiny winding trail up the side of the barn. Without warning, she burst out in a sudden tantrum of nonstop crying, causing Rick to jump up with a sharp yelp.

 

“You boys hungry in there?” he asked, looking at Judith with a smile, silently thanking her for crying when she did. 

 

When Negan rounded the doorway, Rick was clutching his arm tightly against his chest. Once a pale shade of blue, the fabric of the buttondown he was wearing was quickly absorbing a decent amount of blood, saturating it, turning the front of it a muted brown color. “Rick?” He dropped the picnic basket onto the hay-scattered ground and hurried over to him. “What the hell happened?”

 

“It’s nothing,” he lied, trying to shake it off, a sick imitation of a smile pasted on his sweaty, color-drained face. “I just… it’s just a little scratch. What’s for lunch?” he asked casually, blinking the sweat out of his eyes as he continued to bleed.

 

Negan looked down at the dirty, partially-rusted metal of the farm machine he was working on, one of its sharp, triangular-shaped teeth covered in Rick’s blood, bits of light blue fabric stuck to the edge. He moved a step closer to get a better look. Rick moved a step back.

 

Judith put her head down on Negan’s shoulder, yawning as she hooked her arm inside the collar of his shirt. She was asleep in seconds. “I think you need stitches,” he whispered, his stomach turning at the sight of so much blood. “Let me drive you to the ER.”

 

“Oh for love of—” Shane grabbed a half-used roll of duct tape that was hanging on a nail inside the barn wall. “You think we’d have time to mow hell’s half acre out there if we went running to the damn hospital every time one of us got a splinter in our finger?” He pulled a length of tape from the roll, ripping it off with his teeth. “Lemme see, man.” He shoved Rick’s bloody sleeve out of the way, slapping the tape over the nasty cut on his forearm. “Can we eat now? We got a lot of work to do.”

 

***

 

Negan drove the golf cart back up the long gravel driveway, parking it under the shade of a tall red oak. Slumping down in his seat, he turned the key over and let go of a long, silent sigh, a release of tension he had forgotten about until he felt it leave his body. But that tension tried to resurface the minute he realized he was jealous—jealous of a man like Shane. 

 

But what right did he have to be angry? He was there for the same damn reason. He had to laugh.

 

He looked down at Judith as she slept in his arms, her mouth open slightly, two tiny, pearly white teeth shining behind a collection of drool. “Let’s get you to bed, pumpkin.” 

 

_ Maybe,  _ he thought, carefully sliding out of the golf cart, tiptoeing his way toward the house, maybe he could take a quick nap himself once he got her settled. He was beat. He wasn’t used to waking up at six o’clock in the—  “What are  _ you  _ doing here?” 

 

Carl was standing in the kitchen when he opened the front door, both arms crossed, leaning his hip against the counter. “I could ask you the same thing.” The scowl was still there, his voice dripping with the same contempt as the night before. “But I think this pretty much speaks for itself,” he said, holding up the dirty, disposable pans from the diner, the evidence of this morning’s not-so home cooked breakfast still clinging guiltily to the aluminum. 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Negan forced a smile through his tightly clenched teeth, swallowing guiltily as he looked to the sleeping baby in his arms, as if he hoped she could provide an answer. “Judith she—she got sick on me this morning. Literally,” he added, trying to laugh, but it sounded choked and forced, even to his own ears. “I was pressed for time and I… well I didn’t want your dad to have to wait for his breakfast. So I picked something up. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

 

Carl stared back at him, straightening his spine as he cleared his throat, a lopsided smile touching his lips. “Think he’ll understand these, too?” He cocked his head, holding up a fistful of the waxed sandwich wrappers from lunch, the receipt from last night’s meal in his other hand. “You’re a liar, Negan. A fucking liar and I’m gonna make damn sure my dad knows it.”

 

Negan opened his mouth to say something but Carl had already shoved past him, slamming the screen door so hard behind him, it nearly came off the hinges, his racing footsteps echoing as he ran down the gravel driveway. The baby startled awake in his arms, her forehead wrinkling, her mouth twisted as she readied herself to cry. But she looked up at Negan, giving him a big, sleepy, slobbery, open-mouthed grin before shoving her thumb into her mouth, curling up tight in his arms and drifting back to sleep.

 

“Well shit,” he whispered, tiptoeing into the nursery, placing her down in the crib before drawing her curtains closed, making the room nice and dark. “I guess that’s that. Glad I got to meet you darlin’,” he smiled, running his fingers through her fine, light brown baby hair, a hint of her daddy’s curl furling the ends. “Even if you did come at me with everything you fucking had this morning.” Giving her crib mobile a crank, he left the room, Brahms’ lullaby tinkling softly as pink cowgirl hats and wagon wheels spun slowly above her head.

 

Walking back into the kitchen, he grabbed the sandwich wrappers that Carl hadn’t taken, balling them up in his fist, throwing them into the stack of dirty aluminum pans. He washed the dish soap off of the pots and pans he had thrown into the sink this morning—just smoke and mirrors to make Rick think he had really cooked a huge breakfast for him. He laughed to himself as he watched the suds billow up from the drain in the other sink, shocked that he had even lasted this long.

 

The remaining smile on his face melted away as reality sunk in. Carl was down there now, telling Rick everything. Any shot he might have had with him was long gone now. He wasn’t sure how he would react to the news. What if he stormed up to the house wanting to fight? What if his hot-headed friend came with him? Maybe he should just leave this mess and slip out before he had the chance to find out.

 

Just as he reached for the handle, pulling it down to shut off the water, the front door opened. Carl was quiet as he walked back in, his pace a lot slower, but the strong feeling of displeasure was still present. Negan watched him as he rounded the island, throwing the wrappers and the receipt into the pans with the others.

 

Negan coughed to clear his throat, wiping his wet hands on the legs of his jeans. “So?” He locked his gaze on the empty highchair rather than looking directly at the angry boy in front of him. “Get what you wanted?” he asked, scuffing the toe of his shoe over the grain of the wood floor as he waited for an answer. “You talk your dad into firing me?”

 

“I didn’t tell him.” Carl pulled a chair out from under the kitchen table, turning it around, straddling it backwards. “I should have,” he added, his voice low and hard, his hands curling into fists. “But I couldn’t.”

 

Negan looked at him, a deep furrow etched between his brows. “Why? You sure as hell had a fire roaring under your ass to get me out of here a few minutes ago. What changed your mind? Don’t tell me,” he laughed. “There’s a goddamn extortionist hidden somewhere behind that whisker-free baby face of yours.”

 

“I can see through you, Negan. Okay? Don’t think for one fucking second that I can’t. But I heard him talking about you. He was smiling. He doesn't do that much anymore. He’s so relieved that he found a _professional_ _who can do it all_.” The last words dripped with unrestrained ridicule. “He told Shane that he felt good about leaving for work this morning.”

 

Negan watched Carl’s body heave as he sniffed back a crop of angry tears. When he looked up, his eyes were rimmed in red.

 

“Meaning he didn’t when I was in charge.” He sniffed again, running the back of his hand under his nose. “My dad didn’t see you for what you are because he didn’t want to. That’s his problem,” he shrugged, standing up, putting the chair back under the table. “But I’m not gonna let you keep lying to him. Get your shit together… or you're gone.”

 

“What do you want me to do?” Negan asked throwing both hands in the air.

 

“Learn fast,” Carl’s voice echoed as he walked down the dark hallway, slamming his bedroom door behind him.

 

“Shit,” Negan whispered as he rubbed the space between his eyes, hoping to stave off the dull throb of a building headache. _What the hell have I gotten myself into?_

 

***

 

“It’s alright, baby girl!” Negan climbed up on the island, flapping a dish towel in front of the blaring smoke alarm on the ceiling, coughing, trying to blink the thick smoke out of his eyes as Judith wailed from her highchair below. “It’s just a little smoke!”

 

“What the hell are you doing?” Carl rushed into the kitchen, both arms flailing, his face red, creased with anger and aggravation. “Is there a fire?” he asked, dragging his sister’s chair away from the smoke-filled kitchen.

 

“No.” When the beeping finally stopped, Negan climbed down and leaned over on his elbow, resting the side of his head against his knuckles. “I just—I thought maybe I should get some practice in before dinnertime. I did everything right. It smelled so good when I put it in the oven. I followed the YouTube instructions exactly.” Grabbing a couple potholders, he opened the oven, letting another rush of smoke out, placing the burned baking dish up on the stovetop. “I just lost track of the time while picking up the house and taking care of Judith.”

 

Carl walked over and turned on the exhaust fan, ridding the kitchen of the rest of the smoke before the alarm went off again. “What _was_ that?” he asked, his face wrinkled in disgust as he stared down at the bubbling, blackened concoction, stepping back after catching a whiff of its scent.

 

“I did some research.” Negan offered a humorless laugh, sounding more like a hiccup as he turned his head, scratching the back of his neck to camouflage his embarrassment. “I don’t know what your dad likes to eat so I… I turned to Google for some ideas. Found a recipe for something called Cattle Drive Casserole.”

 

“Yeah,” Carl said, shaking his head. “That looks like something you’d find on a cattle drive.”

 

Negan threw his head back and laughed, a real laugh that echoed throughout the big open space of the kitchen and living room. But when he turned back to Carl and noticed the hardness in his eyes, the seriousness of his face, his laughter died on his lips, his smile dissolving into a quivering slant.

 

“Maybe you _should_ stick to take-out,” Carl taunted, picking up a fork from the counter, knocking it against the hard shell of the still-smoldering, coal-like layer of cheese with a dull, hollow thud. “Are you sure this was actual food when you put it in the oven?”

 

Releasing a weighty sigh, Negan picked up the pan and carried it over the sink, washing the barely recognizable contents down the drain with the sprayer.

 

“I bet the Carroll County Prison could use a cook like you. Give those guys on death row what they really deserve. But I’m not even sure they’ve earned this kind of—”

 

With a flip of a switch, the grinding churn of the garbage disposal drowned out the rest of Carl’s snide comment. But it only proved to be a temporary fix as the noise only made him that much louder. As he listened to him over the deafening roar of the motor, Negan let his head fall lifelessly between his shoulders, gripping the countertop so hard he thought the granite might crack, the muscles in his arms shaking, the knuckles on both hands stark white under the pressure. He was doing his best to keep his cool.

 

But when the fork in Carl’s hand flew over his head, landing in the sink with an ear-ringing metallic clank, Negan lost it. “That is _enough_!” His voice splintered throughout the kitchen as he rounded on the boy, leaning down until the two of them were nose-to-nose. Hoping for sheer intimidation, he didn’t take his eyes off of him, staring him down as Judith watched both of them from her chair.

 

Without changing his expression, without batting an eyelash, Carl met his challenge. He stared back at him, those cold blue eyes of his hard and strict, shining with a nasty, unwavering gleam.

 

 _Is this boy fucking with me?_ Negan wondered, refusing to give in to his game of cat and mouse. But after a minute, the fine hairs on the back of his neck and arms bristled, his guilt subconsciously coming into play. It was as if Carl was looking right through him, straight through to the back of his mind where hid his true self, his secrets, the real reason he was here on full display for him to see.

 

As his hands started to tremble, his knees threatening to give way beneath him, he blinked his eyes and looked away. “Fine,” he huffed, slamming the oven door shut with his foot. “You’ve made your point. You don’t like me. Well guess what, kid. I don’t give a shit about you either. So just do us both a favor, will you? Stay the hell out of my way.”

 

“But… ” Carl looked over the fruit in the basket on the counter, picking up an apple, rubbing it against his shirt until its dark red skin shined. “You need my help.”

 

“I don't need shit from you.”

 

“Really?” Carl questioned, raising an eyebrow with a smirk, resting his elbow on the countertop as he took a big, noisy bite from the apple. “You think Judith is gonna tell you what my dad's favorite meals are? Can she show you how to make it look like you have a clue about what you're doing here?”

 

***

 

The air in the house was thick with the rich smells of dinner. A picture perfect pot roast, complete with carrots, pearl onions and thyme, had just come out of the oven. There were fresh baked yeast rolls sitting in the cloth napkin-lined bread basket, folded over the top to keep them warm. And Negan’s flawless, hot apple pie, with cinnamon, brown sugar and a mouthwatering streusel crumb topping, was sitting on the counter, cooling on a trivet.

 

He and Carl were standing at the stove garnishing a big bowl of buttery, red-skinned mashed potatoes with freshly chopped parsley, playfully shoving each other out of the way, laughing as they did, both trying to get the first taste when the front door creaked open.

 

“Hey!” Negan called out in an overly animated voice from the kitchen, turning his head around for half a second to acknowledge Rick as he hung his hat up by the door. “Daddy’s home!” Flinging his dish towel over his shoulder, he carried the main course to the table, Carl right on his heels with the potatoes. “Everything’s just about ready if you wanna wash up.”

 

Rick pulled a face as he dropped his tired, overworked body into one of the recliners long enough to pull his boots off. “Something—” he paused with a low groan, unintentionally giving voice to the pain he was obviously trying to conceal as he picked up his boots, placing them beside the chair. “Something sure smells good.”

 

“You okay?” Negan questioned, putting the warm basket of bread on the table.

 

“Yeah.” Rick pushed himself out of the chair and headed toward the kitchen, rolling his sleeves up to wash his mud and blood-streaked hands. “I’m just… tired.” He bent down, brushing a kiss against Judith’s chubby cheek as she shoved another fistful of bite-size pasta and green peas into her mouth. “Hey, sweetheart. How’d she do today?” he asked, turning the hot water on, pumping his hand full of soap. “She didn't give you too much trouble, did she?”

 

“She uh…” Negan looked down, noticing the tape on Rick’s arm had been replaced with a white dressing, secured in place with actual medical tape. But the bandage was wet with fresh blood and appeared to be swollen underneath it. “She and I got along fine… after she peed on me,” he laughed, looking over at the highchair, smiling as Judith kicked her feet, knocking her little pink boots against footrest, gumming the rest of her dinner. “She got a little sick after she had her first bottle, but that was probably my fault. I was bouncing her around. Making her laugh.”

 

Rick smiled. He looked over his shoulder as he rinsed the suds off of his hands. Carl’s thumbs were busy on his phone, his attention fixed on the screen. “I heard him laughing when I came in,” he said in a near whisper. “I almost forgot what that sounded like.” He looked back down at the sink, watching the dirty water as it went down the drain. “It’s hard,” he noted. “Trying to be his father and his best friend. He needs you. _We_ need you. I’m glad you’re here.”

 

***

 

“How was school today?” Rick asked as he shoveled another forkful of meat and potatoes into his mouth. Judith was sitting on his knee, her little arms stretched out across the table, playing in his plate with her fingers, sampling the savory flavors with a surprised shiver.

 

Carl looked up from his dinner, eyeing Negan guardedly as he stilled, his fork halfway to his mouth when he realized what Rick had asked. After ordering _him_ to stop lying to his dad, Carl had the nerve to ask him not to say anything about getting into a fight before he even made it to school this morning.

 

He’d been having problems with a couple of boys down the road for the last several months. He didn’t know what it was, other than Ron and Mikey didn’t like him, and he didn’t much care for them either. The two of them, for some reason or another, decided to jump Carl on his way to school this morning. A decision that ultimately cost Mikey a black eye and busted lower lip, and left Ron teetering on the verge of unconsciousness in the middle of the dirt road where they scrapped.

 

Carl didn’t have a scratch on him and told Negan he couldn’t remember half of the fight. Said he must of blacked out or something, a more virulent version of himself taking over, showing both of them that he wasn’t intimidated by anyone and he sure as hell wasn’t going to take their shit anymore. Lesson learned. He came home to change clothes and just decided last minute not to go at all.

 

“It was okay,” he lied, putting his fork down and pushing his nearly empty plate away. “You look tired,” he added, hoping to change the subject.

 

“I _am_ tired.”

 

“Not too tired for a slice of my de-licious Dutch apple pie,” Negan presumed, rubbing his hands together with eager anticipation before he started clearing the dinner plates, Carl jumping up, volunteering to help him.

 

While they worked at the sink, Negan looked over to Rick. His attention was on Judith, lifting her shirt, blowing raspberries on her little round tummy. “What’s the fucking difference?” he asked, whispering harshly out of the corner of his mouth. “How come you can lie and I can’t?”

 

“Because he’s _my_ dad,” Carl countered, elbowing him in the ribs when he got too close to his side of the sink. “What do you care anyway? I helped you. I made you look good with those take-and-bake pies and rolls. I _saved_ you.”

 

 _“You saved me,”_ Negan replied, mocking Carl’s accent, adding a nasally whine to it. “And it only cost me three-hundred bucks, you swindling piece of shit. I should get at least a hundred of that back for workers’ compensation. Pretending to get along with you is leaving the crack of my ass chapped.”

 

After leaving the dishes to soak in the sink, Negan plastered the smile back on his face as he carried his pie to the table, serving Rick the biggest piece.

 

“Oh, it’s still warm.” Rick leaned down to smell it, closing his eyes in dreamlike appreciation, taking in its complex aroma. “There’s only one thing that would make this better. A big scoop of—”

 

Before the words left his mouth, Negan dropped a perfectly rounded scoop of vanilla bean ice cream on top of his pie, rivulets of thick white cream melting down over the pie and into the plate.

 

“Thank you.” Rick looked up at him, a warm smile breaking across his rugged features, showing off details Negan had never noticed before—the deep brackets that lined his mouth even when he wasn’t smiling, the way his long lashes fanned over his tanned cheekbones when his lids dropped with every sleepy blink, and those cornflower blue eyes, crinkling at the corners as his smile grew wider.

 

“My pleasure,” Negan whispered low and soft, mirroring the smile on Rick’s face with deep dimples of his own.

 

Judith wasn’t the least bit interested in the pleasantries being exchanged here. No. All she wanted to do was sink her tiny hands into that big scoop of ice cream sitting just out of her reach. She squealed in frustration, threatening tears as she banged on the table.

 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Rick laughed, offering her a small taste from the tip of his spoon. “You definitely got your mama’s sweet tooth.”

 

Negan served Carl and himself some dessert then sat back down, reaching across the table for a spoon. “Your wife… what’s the story there? She had a baby then just up and decided to leave you guys?”

 

Rick’s face paled as his smile vanished. Only a moment ago, his eyes danced and sparkled with life. Now that gleam had been replaced by a dull, vacant stare. “Take your sister, Carl.” His tone was harsh, cold and hostile, rage simmering just beneath the surface.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

Rick offered his son no response as he stood from the table, pulling his keys out of his pocket, grabbing his boots and hat on the way out, slamming the heavy oak door shut hard enough to rattle the hinges.

 

Negan stared at the door, listening to the sound of his tires wheeling around in the driveway, spraying the house with gravel as he roared away. Looking down at the heartbreaking sight of Rick’s untouched pie, Negan put his spoon down and turned to Carl. “What did I say?”

 

***

 

After getting Judith cleaned up and tucked away in her crib, Negan peeped inside Rick’s bedroom, hoping to see him curled up, snoring away in his bed. He wasn’t. Carl was sitting on the couch when he walked back to the living room, his legs folded under him with a photo album open on his lap.

 

“Any word from your dad?”

 

Carl flipped over to the next page, studying each picture as he shook his head. “My mom didn’t just leave,” he stated as Negan sat down beside him, sadness overshadowing the bad-tempered expression he usually wore so proudly. “We were on our way to Marietta for the Cobb County Rodeo. My dad he… he and Shane were the team roping champions, four years in a row. Shane was gonna meet us up there.”

 

Negan listened as he turned his sights toward the fireplace, watching the bark bubble and blister on one of the logs as it crackled in the flames.

 

“Me and dad were arguing. I can’t even remember what it was about now. Something stupid and I just… I wouldn’t let it go. He turned around to look at me and... that’s when it happened. He ran off the road. We bounced off the barrier sending us into a fishtail. When the tires dug into the grass, the right side of the truck came up and we just started rolling. After three or four flips, we landed on our side up against a light pole on the other side of the highway.”

 

He turned the page, looking down at the photo of a woman with brown hair and brown eyes. “She was six months pregnant with Judith.” He touched the plastic covering, caressing the outline of his mother’s smiling face. “They let me in to see her after patching up a couple scratches.” He gestured to his arms and the side of his face. “Dad was down in x-ray when she… ”

 

Carl squeezed his eyes together angrily, swatting away tears from the corners as he turned the page. There were pictures of Rick sleeping in a chair wearing a hospital gown, his face was bandaged, his left leg in a cast.

 

Negan looked at the pictures closer, pulling the album out of Carl’s lap and up to his eyes. There was a tiny pink hand resting on Rick’s bared chest, a mass of tiny tubes and wires coming out from under the front of his gown. He turned the page and sucked in a sharp breath. At only two and a half pounds, Judith fit in the palm of Rick’s hand.

 

Carl moved to the edge of the couch, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his shirt.

 

“Carl I…” Negan put the photo album back in Carl’s lap, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

 

“Don’t touch me!” he growled, slapping Negan’s hand away, knocking him against the arm of the couch with a hard shove. “Don’t you _ever_ fucking touch me again.”

 

“Listen.” Negan sat back up with a heavy sigh, trying not to get angry—not now. “What I said to you in the kitchen earlier... I didn’t mean it.”

 

“Yes you did,” Carl hissed, whipping his head around to look him in the eye. “I know you don’t give a shit about me. You barely know me. But my dad… he doesn’t give a shit about me either. And why should he?” He held up the photo album, shaking it in the air. “He blames _me_ for all of this.” Throwing the book in the floor, he stomped his way back to his room.

 

Judith’s high-pitched cry followed soon after Carl’s bedroom door slammed shut, the sound thundering throughout the house, shaking the walls and the windows.

 

A low groan ached from Negan as he dropped his face into his hands. This was definitely not the help wanted ad he thought he was answering.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Negan woke up with a pounding headache, the worst of it rooted in the space directly between his eyebrows. He squinted, closing one eye as he tried to make out the blurry, jumbled red numbers on the clock by his bed. 1:53am. “Shit, shit, shit,” he hissed to himself, raking his fingers through his hair with an irritable sigh, leaving the greasy strands standing in black spikes against his pillowcase. His day, if Judith had any say in the matter, would start in just a little over four hours. He’d like to say he was looking forward to it, but he really wasn’t, especially if it was going to be anything like yesterday. _Go back to sleep,_ he ordered himself.

 

Turning over on his side, he yanked the bed covers up over his shoulder and forced his eyes shut, determined to get back to sleep quickly. But as the time ticked away on the clock in front of him, seconds turning into minutes, minutes stacking up to half an hour, he was still wide awake, and his headache only growing worse.

 

Throwing the sheet and blanket off to the side, he slid out of bed, hoping like hell there was a bottle of aspirin stashed away somewhere in this house as he padded out into the dark hallway.

 

“Jackpot,” he whispered, pilfering through the big bathroom at the end of the hall, finding a bottle of every over the counter pain reliever known to man inside the medicine cabinet. He opened one of the bottles, not caring which brand it was, and popped a couple tablets into his mouth, swallowing them down with a handful of water from the running tap.

 

He wondered, after using the toilet and turning out the light, what time Rick got home. With his door standing wide open, he crept down the hall and peered inside the shadowy doorway, inching his way into the darkness until his eyes found a motionless lump breathing heavily under the brown microsuede comforter.

 

Tiptoeing further inside, moving closer to his bed, Negan gazed down at him, the curtain-filtered shine of the moon offering just enough light to give him a soft glow. He was sprawled out comfortably on his stomach, his legs taking up most of the bed while his mind was lost somewhere in a deep sleep.

 

He stood there for a moment, studying the geography of his face, his eyes following the long, straight bridge of his strong nose, counting the thick, ink-dark lashes that lay fanned out against the curve of his cheekbone. And his mouth, those full pink lips that never failed to spread into a devastating smile whenever he looked at him. God, he was perfect. He’d give anything for a picture of him, just like this, even with his hair a complete mess and his face smashed against the pillow.

 

As he bent down, pulling the comforter up to cover his cold shoulders, Negan felt his heart stop beating for a second. He held his breath as the sleeping man groaned and rolled over on his back, shoving the comforter off completely. Rick stared blankly at Negan’s frozen face, the tiniest of smiles turning the corners of his mouth upward as he scratched frantically at the side of his head, his lips barely moving as he mumbled something unintelligible about a horse. After a few seconds, his eyes fell shut again, his bare chest rising and falling with deep breaths and soft snores.

 

 _Holy shit,_ Negan thought, releasing his held breath slowly, relief invading his body as he wiped away the beads of sweat that had formed over his upper lip. He should probably go now, before he really woke up and caught him creeping around in his bedroom in the middle of the night.

 

But as his greedy eyes gobbled up one last look, a nervous flutter swept into his stomach. He tried to remember how to swallow as his gaze settled on Rick’s tan line, a sexy rim of lighter skin just below the dark tuft of hair under his belly button. A couple inches lower, the outline of his semi-hard cock was clearly visible under the thin beige sheet that swaddled his hips, the shape of his balls full and heavy, even as he slept. Damn, what he wouldn't give to just—

 

“The hell you doing in here?”

 

Negan jumped and wheeled around in the dark, his eyes scanning the dim doorway in search of the stern, unseen voice. “I’m uh, I was just checking on Rick,” he answered, unsure of who he was talking to until Shane stepped further into the moonlit room. He felt sick to his stomach all of a sudden, his heart thumping in his ears as he caught sight of his very naked, muscular physique. “He left in the middle of dinner last night,” he added anxiously, his eyes finding the ceiling as Shane gave himself a few arrogant strokes right in front of him. “He seemed upset, so I just wanted to—”

 

“Yeah,” Shane whispered harshly, taking a step closer to him. “I heard all about it.” He took another step. “He _was_ upset. Needed a shoulder to cry on.” Another step, then another. “So he came to _me._ ” He was close enough now that Negan could feel the heat of his skin, near enough for him to smell the faint echoes of sweat and sex clinging to his body. “Thanks to _you_ … ” he paused, licking his lips as they twisted into a cruel smile. “Ol’ Shane here had to kiss it and make it all better.” He looked toward the bed, holding his length in his hand as its tightening skin flushed purple with a surge of fresh blood.  

 

Negan drew a deep breath through his nose, his mouth curling into an angry frown. He hadn’t realized he’d balled his fists until he looked down at his hands. Shane looked at them too, feigning fear and surrender with his hands up in the air.

 

“Tell you what, man.” Shane stepped back with a short, coarse roar of laughter and dropped his hands, making his way around to the empty side of the bed. “Why don’t you just run along,” he suggested, using his first two fingers in a walking motion. “Tend to your apple pie baking and your dirty diaper duty,” he laughed again, lifting the disheveled comforter, exposing Rick’s bare hip and thigh as he slid back in beside him. “And you let _me_ worry about Rick. He’s in good hands.”

 

Negan headed back to his room, his face red with rage and a rumbling noise in his throat as he fell into his bed. He swore he could feel the spike in his blood pressure as he lay there, cursing that son of a bitch Shane under his breath. He glanced over at the clock, hoping he could calm himself down enough to get a couple more hours of sleep before Judith sounded off.

 

He could feel the tension pulling through every muscle in his body, his teeth damn near shattering from the tightness in his jaw as he rolled over, punching his pillow and jerking the sheet up over him. Doing his best to put _whatshisname_ out of his mind, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

 

Across the hall, he could hear the soft rumbling of deep voices as they carried through the dark. He ignored them, forcing his brain to focus on his breathing and the light rainstorm just beginning to fall outside his bedroom window. After a few minutes, he felt himself relax, his tension melting, his body sinking into the mattress as the drops of water tapped out a mournful cadence against the glass, the sound soothing him like the gentle song of a lullaby. Just as he drifted off—

 

_Thump, thump, thump._

 

The noise started low, a gradual banging noise that sounded like it was coming from somewhere inside the house. Sitting up, Negan cocked his head to the side and listened. It was definitely coming from inside. In fact, if he wasn't mistaken, the noise seemed to be coming from Rick’s bedroom. When the coarse breathing started, slowly rising and escalating, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind.

 

 _No_. His face caught fire, his blood pressure boiling again as he pictured that bastard plowing into his cowboy.

 

Rick’s heavy breathing soon twisted into a mix of hushed moans and shocked gasps, each ragged breath punctuated, broken up with husky intermittent pleas to Shane, his volume increasing with every bang the headboard made against the wall. “Don’t stop. Fuck. Don’t stop, Shane.”

 

Negan gulped back the horror and closed his eyes, his stomach clenching as he listened to Rick call Shane’s name. He dropped back on the bed with a heavy sigh, grabbing a pillow, pulling it over his head to drown out the sounds of their guttural grunts and groans, the thumping growing louder, harder as the bed rocked across the hall. It didn’t help. He flung the pillow across the bed, the sound of sheets rustling, the sound of their bodies slapping together, skin sliding on skin, all deafening to his ears.

 

 _It was just a quick fuck,_ he reminded himself. Hard and satisfying. Zero cuddling and even less sweet talk. And Shane, well he knew his type. He was only in it for the sex. He knew all of that. Hell, he was _his_ type. He was here for the same damn thing. But that knowledge did nothing to quell the ache, the never-ending heaviness he felt in his chest as he listened to Rick come undone in _his_ arms.

 

It was supposed to be him. He was supposed to be in his bed by now. Rick was supposed to be calling _his_ name. That was the plan wasn't it?

 

When the wall banging finally stopped, Negan sat there, waiting, listening as the two of them settled back into bed, the strains of a muted argument between the two of them, Shane getting the last word through a husky yawn—then silence.

 

***

 

Pouring himself another cup of coffee, his third cup to be exact, Negan yawned loudly and knuckled his eyes, rubbing them until he saw a swarm multicolored stars popping behind the darkness of his closed lids. Judith giggled from her doorway jumper as he stretched and groaned, growling like a bear as he threw both arms high above his head, bending and arching his back until his vertebrae snapped back into place. He was exhausted. After being an earwitness to not one but two twenty minute rounds of _Shane… Shane... don’t stop... Shane_ , he found himself wrapped up in angry, obsessive thoughts instead of focussing on getting back to sleep.

 

“You didn’t add the pecans?”

 

Negan sighed and pinched the bridge of skin between his nose and eyebrows, attempting to deflect the headache that was threatening to come back. All he wanted to do was rest his tired eyes for two minutes and wait for his caffeine to kick in. Was that too much to ask?

 

He turned around to see Carl studying over one of the index cards from Carol’s recipe box. _“What?”_ His voice was a little sharper than he’d intended. “I didn’t add the what?” he asked again, softening his tone as best as his current mood would permit.

 

“Carol’s french toast casserole is my dad’s favorite.” He held up an unopened bag of chopped pecans. “And you didn’t add the one thing that _makes it_ his favorite?”

 

“Shit,” Negan whispered, opening the oven, taking out the still-jiggly pan of half-baked french toast. “Maybe if we… _goddammit!”_ He ripped the bag open, spilling its contents all over the counter. “Maybe if we sprinkle some on top, he won’t notice.” In his hurry to rake up a handful of the spilled nuts, the back of his hand collided with the basket of brown eggs sitting on the counter, sending every last one of them rolling off into the floor. As he spun around, trying to catch one or two of them, he touched the hot casserole dish with his forearm. Yelping in pain, he stepped back, his feet dragging through the broken eggs, spreading the slimy mess all over the kitchen floor just before he slipped and fell in it.

 

“Dude!” Carl turned around, stopping just short of the sludgy puddles that covered the floor. “What in the hell is your problem?”

 

“I can’t do this!” he hissed, pulling a sharp piece of eggshell out of the bottom of his foot. He looked up at Carl. “I’m tired. I was up all night. Please… let me just run out to a diner and pick something up. Your dad doesn’t have to know.”

 

“No.”

 

Negan slapped angrily at the slippery pools of goo in the floor, splashing egg whites all over himself and the cabinet doors. “I paid you to help me!”

 

“That’s what I’m trying to do, Negan.” Carl grabbed a roll of paper towels, unwinding a dozen or so sheets around his arm before tossing the roll in the floor “So get up off your ass and finish this. If you’re smart enough to fake your way through it… you’re smart enough to learn how to do it right.”

 

***

 

After taking a quick shower and throwing on a clean pair of pants, Negan grabbed the small bottle of cologne that he’d swiped from Simon’s bathroom when he packed his bags, dabbing a little bit to the pulse points of his neck. Whenever Simon used it, he walked around all day smelling like a cheap cigar and an old bowl of citrus fruit. But on Negan, the cologne took on a much more sexy, virile scent, with notes of dark leather and a heady sweetness of warm vanilla.

 

As he stood at the sink, combing his wet hair into place, he found himself thinking about Shane, comparing himself to the asshole. _What’s he got that I don’t have?_ he wondered, studying his strong features in the mirror. Lifting his head, he leaned in closer to get a better look, raising his right eyebrow as if he were posing for one of those _guy_ magazines.

 

He smiled at his reflection, liking what he saw. Liking it a lot. Sure, he had a few grays streaking the black hair on his head and face. And maybe there were a few more lines around his eyes than there used to be. But so what. He knew he was an attractive man. He just needed to get Rick to see it.

 

As he licked his forefinger, running it over his thick eyebrows to smooth the unruly strays, the bathroom door swung open, rattling on its hinges. He looked up from his own face to see Shane standing in the doorway. “You know, to anyone with half a goddamn brain, a closed door means _keep the fuck out—I’m busy doing something private in here_.”

 

Shane leaned heavily against the door frame, staring at him coldly through the mirror with his arms crossed. “You gonna get breakfast on the table anytime soon… or are you just gonna stand in here and do your makeup all damn day?”

 

Negan picked his watch up off the counter, pulling the stretchy metal band back around his wrist. “You’re early. Rick said breakfast starts at eight sharp. It's only 7:53”

 

“Well I’m _telling you_ ... it’s time to eat. So chop chop. Some of us around here have _real_ jobs we need to get back to.”

 

A smile puckered Negan’s mouth and eyes as he tilted his chin up to survey his torso, admiring the angry, blue pit viper tattoo that stretched across his chest, it’s tail coiling around his left nipple. “You mean shoving your arm shoulder deep up a cow’s ass? That the _real_ job you mean?” Taking his time, he applied a liberal amount of deodorant to each armpit before slowly pulling a black t-shirt over his head. “I don’t work for you,” he reminded him as he turned around, pushing past him to go back to the kitchen.

 

***

 

“Pass the syrup, Jimbo.” Shane kept a stony glare pointed at Negan all through breakfast, chewing angrily as his leg bounced rapidly under the table.

 

“This is just about the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten,” Jim announced softly, making kissy noises at Judith while she munched happily on a handful of Cheerios at her highchair.

 

Negan’s face was wreathed in proud smiles as he basked in the praise. “Well thanks, Jim. That’s probably one of my easiest recipes. I could throw it together with my eyes closed.” He looked up from his plate to catch Carl’s blue eyes blazing at him skeptically, his smile fading, his face heating up as he thought back to the egg bath he’d taken in the kitchen floor. “What do you think, Rick? You haven’t said a word since you sat down. You haven’t even touched your breakfast.”

 

Rick’s head was down, the weight of it resting against his curled fist.

 

“Rick?” Negan touched his shoulder, shaking him gently. “You okay?”

 

Rick jumped awake and wiped a dribble of drool off of his chin. He looked around the table, a confused expression creasing his forehead momentarily. “I’m sorry.” The sunlight pouring in through the kitchen windows made him wince, his eyelids narrowing to little more than two blue, wafer-thin slits. He blocked the light with his hand and looked back to Negan. “Could you get me something for a headache?” He sucked a sharp breath in between his teeth, rubbing his neck as he reached for his coffee cup. “I feel like crap.”

 

“Maybe you should take the rest of the day off,” Carl suggested, watching his dad with a worried frown.

 

“He don’t need the day off,” Shane laughed, sucking the bacon grease from the tips of his fingers as he scooped himself up another serving from the casserole dish. “What he needs is a stiff drink to kill that fucking hangover so we can get the rest of those hay bales in the barn before it rains again.”

 

“Stop cussing in front of Judith,” Rick hissed, massaging his forehead with his thumb and index finger. “I’m not hungover, Shane. I’m sick. I didn’t sleep much last night, either.”

 

“If you want,” Negan said, returning to the table with three ibuprofen and a small glass of orange juice. “I know a little trick that might get rid of that headache. I know what you’re going through right now. I was up most of the night with the same thing.”

 

Rick put the tablets on his tongue, nodding as he tipped the glass to his lips, his brow wrinkling as the acidic juice washed over his taste buds. “I’ll try anything.”

 

Negan quickly moved in behind him, moving his hat, hanging it on the ear of the empty chair beside him. “I’m gonna need you to take your shirt off.”

 

Shane’s fork scraped across his plate before he dropped it with a loud clank, shoving his chair back with the back of his legs as he stood. “I think you should just stick to your casseroles, man. Let’s get the hell outta here and get back to work, boys.”

 

Rick straightened in his chair and pushed his still-full breakfast plate away from him. Tugging at the hem of his shirt, he pulled it out of the front of his jeans, unbuttoning it as he looked up to eye Shane. “We’ll go back to work when _I_ say so.” Although his tone was mild, there was an underlying lilt of warning there.

 

Negan’s mouth dried as he watched the shirt slide off of his wide shoulders, revealing a bronzed back that would have been the pride of any gladiator. Touching him, he shivered at the feel of him under his fingers, damn near forgetting his original intentions of easing his headache. “You’re so tight.” His gaze drifting toward Shane, slowly and deliberately as he worked the taut muscles of Rick’s back.

 

Shane tsk’d his tongue in an utter display of teenaged-level jealousy, shrugging his shoulders with a fabricated smile.

 

Negan walked his hands up and down Rick’s shoulders and spine, pushing his wrists over the sides of his stiff neck with gentle pressure. His eyes trailed over the terrain of his farm work muscles and suntanned skin, marveling at how hours and hours spent under the sun had left his shoulders with a dusting of freckles, like a sprinkling of spilled cinnamon.

 

Using his thumb, working on one side at a time, he kneaded his upper neck in small circles, leaning into him, inhaling his scent, the masculine smell of sweat, sun-drenched grass and fresh-cut hay filling his nostrils. Damn, it was a smell that warmed Negan all the way through to his soul. If only he could bottle it and keep it with him.

 

“I’m sorry for the way I smell,” Rick offered, his ears probably picking up on Negan’s breathing.

 

“You smell like hard work, Rick. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. I like it.” Negan smiled at the way Rick blushed from behind, a flush starting at the nape of his neck, spreading rapidly down the upper part of his back. What he wouldn’t give to see his face right now.

 

“Well you smell really good,” Rick noted, a second rush of awkwardness pinking his skin even more. “What are you wearing?”

 

“Oh for fucks sake,” Shane growled, crossing his arms, throwing his back against the spindles of his chair. “You two gonna swap recipes, too? Gonna braid each other’s hair and give each other a manicure while we’re sitting here on our asses, pissing the workday away?”

 

Negan laughed to himself, knowing it would piss Shane off even more if he just ignored him. Gently brushing Rick’s curls out of the way, he worked his way higher, increasing the pressure of his touch as he massaged his neck, his thumbs impressing tiny circles into all the tight and painful places, smiling as a crop of goosebumps rose in its wake.

 

“Mmm.” Rick closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, practically moaning with every movement. “ _Ohh_ yeah. Right there. Mmm.”

 

“Right _here_?” Negan whispered close to Rick’s ear, his voice soft and husky, continuing to rub the hard knot until he felt it melt away.

 

“Yesss… yes… right there.” Rick sighed heavily, his shoulders sinking a little in relief. “You’re very good at this.”

 

Negan didn’t need to look up to know that Shane was still staring at him, he could feel the weight of his hard, angry eyes boring a hole through his skull. “I’m good at a lot of things, Rick.”

 

Shane’s empty chair hit the floor with a clatter, the front door slamming hard enough to make the clock on the wall miss a tick. Rick dropped his arms at his side, his head hanging down like a scolded pup. Negan could feel the tension as it moved back into his neck and shoulders.

 

Without saying a word, Rick slipped his shirt back up over his shoulders, fastening the buttons one handed as he stood to leave, Jim standing up and following him out.

 

As Carl comforted Judith, the loud noises startling her, upsetting her as she ate, Negan watched out the front window as Rick pushed himself to make it back to the truck.

 

***

 

“Look out, Hot Rod, fresh laundry coming through.” Negan craned his neck, looking around the heaped-up basket of clothes in his arms, his shins narrowly escaping the bumper of Judith’s red pickup truck walker, an exact replica of her dad’s work truck. Dropping the laundry on the couch, spilling half of it in the floor as he grabbed the TV remote and chased after her, his shrill voice echoed in the open space of the living room as he mimicked the sound of a police siren. _“Freeze!”_ he screeched, jumping out in front of her in a wide stance, blocking her way as he pointed the remote control in her direction. “Let me see your license and registration, little missy.”

 

Judith giggled and squealed, her little bare feet moving her across the floor as a thin string of drool dangled from her chin, soaking and darkening the front of her _I Love My Daddy_ shirt.

 

“Turn the vehicle off and get your hands up where I can see them!”

 

Judith inched closer to him, each assisted step she took making her laugh even harder. She tapped the front of his leg with the walker, watching him hit ground in an overly dramatic fashion, groaning and rolling, holding his leg as he released a flood of animated _ohs_ and _ows_. “You got me, Jude. You got me.” He flopped over on his back, closing his eyes, letting his tongue hang out of the side of his mouth.

 

As he lay there, feigning his critical injuries for Judith’s entertainment—an Oscar-worthy performance on his part—he heard the front door open, followed by the sound of Carl’s heavy backpack hitting the hardwood floor with a depressing thud. He kept perfectly still, never moving a muscle as he listened to the footsteps of his long-legged strides cross into the kitchen, the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing, and the long _hiss_ as he popped the top on a can of soda.

  
As Carl walked past the chair he was laying behind in the living room, Negan rolled over and grabbed him around the ankles. “Oh thank God. They’ve sent me some backup. Cuff that girl, Grimes. Charge her with battery on a police officer.”

 

Carl looked down at him, then lower to the fingers clamped around his legs. “Let go of me.”

 

Under his seemingly light tone lay a core of steel, enough to let Negan know he was travelling down a narrow path. “Jesus, kid. What's it gonna take to get on your good side anyway?” Standing up, he lifted Judith from her walker. “Look at this girl right here.” He threw high in the air, catching her as she squealed with both excitement and fear. “She fucking loves me.”

 

“Well she’s a baby. She doesn't know any better.” Carl put his drink on the coffee table and studied the condition of the house—unfolded laundry left to wrinkle, a sinkful of dirty dishes, and ninety-eight percent of Judith’s toys, scattered from corner to corner on the living room floor. “What the hell have you done all day?”

 

Negan glanced over to the boy, he was standing just like his father—feet apart, head cocked to one side, and a hand thrown on his hip. “Well I had to wash your dad’s sheets, I made lunch, then… well Judy and me _might_ have taken a little nap. She insisted.”

 

***

 

With the laundry folded and put away, the rest of the chores taken care of, Carl sat at the table, getting his homework out of the way while Negan stood over a pot of boiling water, studying the instructions on a box of spaghetti. “Okay. It’s boiling, Carl. How many boxes do I add?”

 

“There’s only four of us, dumbass. Just the one.”

 

“Look.” He slammed the unopened box of pasta down on the counter. “I’m getting real tired of your smart—”

 

The front door wheezed open, catching both of them off guard. Negan checked the time on his watch.

 

“Dad?”

 

Rick staggered to the kitchen table and collapsed into one of the chairs, his face was pinched and very pale where it wasn’t streaked with dirt from a hard day’s work. Negan could see his muscles twitching beneath his shirt, his breathing was labored.

 

“Dinner’s not ready yet,” he opened the fridge and grabbed a cold bottle of water, walking it over to the table. “Wasn’t expecting you home so soon.”

 

Rick stared at the bottle of water in front of him, then looked up to Carl. “Where’s your mom?” His speech was slurred, one eye not keeping track with the other one. “She… she not home yet?”

 

Negan looked up, taking note of the horrified look on Carl’s face. “Rick? You been drinking? You take something?” He knew for a fact that he hadn’t eaten anything today. He was too sick to eat breakfast and he’d refused his lunch altogether. “How’s your headache?” He took his hat off, laying his hand against his sweaty forehead. “My, God. He’s burning up.”

 

“I need…” He clutched the collar of his shirt and jerked his head, his mouth opening as he gasped for air. “I need to go to sleep. Just… just let me go to sleep. Where’s Lori?” His eyes rolled back in his head, his body slumped, sliding lower in the chair.

 

“What’s wrong with him? Do something!”

 

Not knowing what else to do, he pushed one of his shirt sleeves up to check his pulse, paralyzed by the state of his forearm. His bandage was soaked with blood and pus, the skin around it inflamed, red streaks running up and down his arm.

 

“Carl. I’m gonna need you to call an ambulance. Tell them where we are. Tell them to look for a Red Chevy Silverado with its blinkers flashing. Tell them to meet me. Tell them he doesn't have much time.”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Mud splattered the doors and windows of the red pickup as soon as it turned off the paved, two-lane road, rolling under the ranch’s entrance, bouncing over the gate’s cattle guard with a loud, metallic rattle _._ Negan gripped the steering wheel, veering left and right, trying to miss as many of the water-pooled chug holes in the gravel driveway as he could.

 

“All these future Big Mac's out here,” he laughed at his own joke, jutting his chin toward the cattle. “They weathered one hell of a storm last night.” His eyes shifted back and forth between the long, winding drive and the passenger seat, a pair of dark-ringed, hollow blue eyes observing everything through the dirty windshield, studying the farm as if he’d never laid eyes on it before. “Did you get much rain at the hospital?”

 

Rick offered a weak, nearly undetectable shoulder shrug, holding on to the armrest with his right hand as he continued to watch the scattered herds grazing out in the pastures. He was pale and exhausted, a withered shell of the man he was two months ago.

 

_He’s septic._

 

Negan could still smell the pungent odor of disinfectant as the doctor broke the news to him in that private waiting room. His immune system, the way the physicians explained it to he and Shane, had gone into overdrive trying to fight off the infection in his arm. The chemicals in his bloodstream had caused inflammation to spread throughout his entire body, rather than just the cut. They had all given him less than a forty percent chance of survival, and if Negan were to be completely honest, judging by the gray, lifeless form he saw lying in that hospital bed, he’d say they were being generous.

 

Rick spent a total of eight weeks in the hospital, forty-two of those days were spent in a drug-induced unconscious state. His room in ICU looked more like someone wheeled a bed smackdab in the middle of NASA’s mission control center, machines blinking to his left, beeping to his right, all doing their part in keeping him alive.

 

Infusion pumps, stacked sixteen high, each one humming as it pushed a different fluid through one of the multiports inserted into his body. There, too, was the asthmatic sigh of the dialysis machine. With his blood pressure bottoming out, his kidneys started to suffer. When they failed him, his body no longer producing urine on its own, the machine filtered his blood of the harmful waste and toxins his body simply couldn’t get rid of. And that big blue tube sticking out of his mouth, his chest rising and falling rhythmically with every noisy hiss and click from the ventilator, breathing for him so his body could rest as it healed.

 

In the course of his post coma recovery, he had to learn how to control all of the normal bodily functions most people take for granted everyday—swallowing, bladder management, manual dexterity—even the simple task of sitting up on his own was impossible. There was nothing he could do for himself that didn’t require some form of help.

 

With physical therapy and the use of a cane, he was finally able to get back on his feet, but it was not without its hurdles. His limbs were heavy, his muscles too weak to carry him most days. His lungs hurt with every ragged inhale as he struggled to breathe. Even a short trip to the bathroom, just a few steps from his bed, was enough to deplete his energy level completely.

 

Even though he’d dodged a huge bullet in surviving his battle with sepsis, he still had a long road to recovery. He’d lost a lot of weight, a lot of it in muscle. And thanks to the high fevers he endured, his body being forced into a prolonged period of complete inactivity, a lot of his hair had fallen out. What was left of his brown curls now lay tangled and matted against his head.

 

Negan pulled up beside of the house, throwing the gear in park and killing the engine. “You okay?” he asked, grabbing the white pharmacy bag from the center console, the tympanic sound of rattling pills pervading the cab of the truck.

 

Rick stared at the floorboard, his face splintering into something that resembled a faint smile. He rubbed his right hand up and down his left sleeve. “It’s my arm,” he whispered, gathering the fabric up in his fist.

 

At first, the doctors thought they might be able to save Rick’s infected limb, but later, after the infection spread through the rest of his arm and the blood flow was cut off, his fingers turning black as the tissue died, the only option left on the table was to amputate, right at the shoulder.

 

“You can still feel it, can’t you?” Negan watched as he placed the empty sleeve back across his lap, rubbing the area where the infected cut used to be. “It still hurts you, doesn’t it? Even though it… even though it’s gone?”

 

Rick turned his head, staring out at nothing through the mud-stippled window, answering the questions with a tight nod as he swallowed hard, gulping back a sudden upwelling of emotion.

 

“Rick.” Negan’s shoulders lifted in a deep, silent sigh. “It’s okay to be upset. Go ahead and have you a good cry over this. Hell, scream if you want to. I would be. But… ” He reached out, nearly touching his bandaged, shirt-covered shoulder, his hand falling on the curve of the leather headrest instead. “You know this isn’t the end of the world, right?”

 

Rick closed his eyes, his dark lashes fanning over his pale cheek as he shook his head, his chin wrinkling, trembling with the grief he was forcing himself to hold back.

 

Negan knew it was the wrong approach before he opened his mouth, but he had to say something. “With a little TLC and rest, plenty of good food to warm your belly and make you stronger, why you could be back out there roping those damn cattle by the horns again lickety—”

 

“Save your fairy tales for Judith,” Rick bristled, pushing the truck door open with his foot, the rubber heel of his walking cane digging into the loose gravel between his feet as he slid out. “She might actually believe them.”

 

While he tested his weight on his legs in the driveway, his footing shaky and uncoordinated, Negan hopped out and ran around the truck, slipping his arm around his waist to steady him. “Can I help you to the house?” The angry flash of cowboy pride looking back at him told him he’d asked the wrong question. “All right, then.” He held his hands up and took a step back. “I’ll be right behind you if you need me.”

 

Focusing all of his energy on the simple act of walking, Rick made it to the house and up the stairs on his own, pushing a still-hovering Negan away with the last bit of strength left in his body. “I don’t—need—your help.” Leaning heavily against the doorframe, he grabbed his throat, his chest heaving as he struggled for air, his cane clattering against the cedar planks of the porch floor.

 

An audible thread of _shhs_ and strong whispers reached their ears from inside the house.

 

Negan stood on the tips of his boots, stretching himself up to look through a gap in the living room curtains. Shane—and what had to be about forty to fifty other people—were all scrambling around at his command, trying to find some place to hide behind the living room furniture. Carl, with Judith on his hip, stood behind a huge sheet cake sitting on the island, fitted with enough candles to illuminate the entire state of Georgia.

 

“I don’t know how you feel about surprise parties, Rick, but you’re about to walk in on a fucking doozy.” He turned around, his eyes darting around the ranch until he spotted a bevy of parked cars out behind the barn, pointing them out to Rick. “There's an absolute _assload_ of people in your living room right now.”

 

Rick looked at himself in the pane of glass, misery leaking from every harried line on his face as he took in his raddled reflection. He tugged at the coarse ends of his matted curls, lifting his chin to examine the dark sunken wells around his eyes. “I don’t want to see anyone _._ ”

 

Negan searched his face for a moment, offering him a faint smile before gathering him carefully in his arms. “You won’t have to.” Before Rick could fill his lungs with enough air to protest, he carried him down the steps and around the house, sneaking him in through the kitchen door, disappearing down the shadows of the dark hallway undetected.

 

“You just rest,” he whispered, laying him down on top of his freshly washed bedding, grabbing the extra blanket folded across the foot of his bed. After taking his shoes and socks off, he covered him warmly and dragged the curtains closed. “I’ll go out there and shut that shit down.”

 

***

 

“What the _hell_ were you two thinking?” Negan hissed, his neck corded with thick, angry veins as he reached up, ripping the _Welcome home!_ banner down from the ceiling. “Your dad almost died, Carl. He came this close—” he held his hand up, his pointer and thumb less than a half inch apart. “—this fucking close to getting his ticket punched. He’s weak, he’s exhausted. And whether he knows it or not… he’s angry. He is in no way, shape, or form ready for one of your goddamn soirées.”

 

“Negan, shut up.” Shane’s voice rattled with a dry chuckle as he sat at the table, licking the buttercream icing out from between the tines of his little plastic fork. “Just _shut up_. It was just a damn welcome home party for the kids.” He dug his fork back into the corner of the cake, sectioning off another big chunk, burying it inside his mouth, shaking his head as he chewed. “It ain’t that big a deal.”

 

Negan bit his tongue and looked into one of the gifts that were piled high on the coffee table, storming over to the kitchen with the bag, swatting Shane in the back of the head with its contents.

 

Shane jumped up with a growl and threw his fork across the table, knocking the chair over behind him. “Man, I’ve had just about enough of your shit.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, settling his clenched fists to waist level. “Let’s take it outside and—”

 

Negan threw a new pair of deerskin roping gloves in his face, shutting him up. “ _Gloves_ ,” he hissed sharply, stressing on the plural. “ _Two_ of them, Shane.” He walked back into the living room, scooping Judith up before she could pull up on the table, helping herself to the other gifts. “Everything in these bags,” he said, pulling a new, braided lasso rope out of the loose bundles of brightly colored tissue paper. “They’re all just little reminders of everything he thinks he’s lost. To _him_ ,” he motioned with his head down the hallway. “To that man in there who’s too weak to stand, too out of breath to walk, to the man who’s probably laying in there right now, wondering how he’s ever going to get back to what he was before this. To _him_... I’d say it’s a helluva big deal.”

 

***

 

Negan poured himself a cup of freshly brewed coffee, adding a dash of hazelnut creamer before he and his warm slippers shuffled out to the front porch. “Mmm,” he hummed, lacing his fingers around its warmth, inhaling its redolent steam as he watched the first light come into the sky, the dusty blue canvas blushing with a giddy shade of pink as the sun rose, the rooster crowing its welcome loud and proud.

 

Strong and hot, the coffee scalded his tongue and throat, burning all the way down to his stomach. “Goddamn,” he whispered to himself, sucking in a noisy mouthful of air, licking his scorched lips to cool them off. After setting the mug down to cool in the morning breeze for a bit, he braced the heels of his hands on the porch rail and leaned over, his eyes soaking up the panoramic view of the ranch. He watched the cattle as they fed, a few breaking away from the herds, their hooves thundering the earth as they made a mad rush toward the rain-filled troughs, scattering a flock of blackbirds that were flutter-bathing in the water.

 

He sat down in one of the rocking chairs and stretched his limbs with a sluggish groan, relishing what was left of his time alone. It was Sunday morning. The house was peaceful, quiet, everyone inside still fast asleep. There was no rush to get breakfast out on the table. No grimy cowboys with muddy boots dirtying up his clean floors. No fighting with Carl to get him up and off to school. This was his time.

 

Reaching over, he lifted his cup back to his lips, sipping it warily at first to test the temperature, then gulping it, bringing his mind and body back to life with a muscly jolt of caffeine. As the last few drops dripped down his throat, he heard the squeaky hinges of the backdoor open, the floorboards of the kitchen creaking with the weight of furtive footsteps.

 

“Rick?”

 

He’d been in his bedroom since he brought him home from the hospital last week, only making the short trip back and forth to the bathroom. He didn’t want to be around anyone, not even his kids. All he wanted to do was sleep, staring out that damn window from his bed when he wasn’t. Negan hated to admit it, but it was hard to be around him anymore. He was bitter, short-fused and cold. His body was lanky, malnourished, the man barely eating enough to keep a mouse alive. He didn’t give a shit about his hygiene anymore, much less his appearance, his hair still unbrushed, his body unwashed. He was losing himself, sinking further and further into a dark place he may not be able to come back from.

 

Bringing his empty coffee cup inside, Negan was disappointed to find that it was Carl standing in the kitchen, instead of his dad. “The hell you doing up so early?”

 

Carl spun around on his heels, his sneakers squelching on the hardwood floor as he stared back at him through glassy blue eyes. “What the hell are _you_ doing up so early?” he countered, his words slurring, his long, skinny legs swaying his body from side to side.

 

“Are… are you just getting _home_?” Negan walked over to put his cup in the sink, a strong familiar scent curling the hairs in his nose. “Have you been drinking?”

 

Carl opened the refrigerator, swiping a jar of pickle spears from the door. “ _No,_ ” he answered smartly, the lie so obvious he didn’t even bother to make it sound convincing. Twisting the lid off, a clangorous ring chiming out as it spun around on the countertop, he sank his fingers into the cold fluorescent brine, eating the dills straight from the jar.

 

“Jesus Christ, Carl.” Negan tried to keep his voice low so he didn’t wake Rick and Judith. “You’re fourteen fucking years old.”

 

Carl brushed past him and sat down at the table, turning his back to him as he stifled an exasperated eye roll.

 

“Where’d you get the liquor?” Negan folded his arms across his chest and waited for an answer, his chin up, his jaw tight.

 

Carl crunched down on another pickle, laughing under his breath.

 

“I’m gonna ask you again.” Negan stepped behind him, resting his hands on the top rail of his chair. “Where did you get—”

 

“Don’t you have some laundry to fold or dishes to wash? Go change someone's shitty diaper or something,” he suggested, waving his hand to shoo him away.

 

Negan grabbed him beneath his arm and spun him around on his feet, his slippers soaking up the liquid that spilled from the jar. “Where did you get the goddamn liquor, boy?”

 

“Get your hands off me! I don’t have to explain shit to you!”

 

Negan looked up, turning his attentions to the sound of bare feet shuffling down the hall, every other glide punctuated with an intermittent _bump_ against the wood floors.

 

Rick made it to the table and sat down, his breathing harsh and ragged, tangling in his throat as if he’d just finished running some sort of marathon. “What’s—what’s going on?” he asked, blinking his heavy, sleeping pill-blurred eyes.

 

“Go back to bed, Rick. I’ll handle this.”

 

“You aren’t handling anything,” Carl spluttered angrily, trying to work himself free of Negan’s grip. “Let go of me!”

 

“Will somebody please—” Rick swallowed against his dry throat, taking a moment to catch his breath. “Will somebody tell me what happened?”

 

Negan turned Carl back around, half lifting him, half shoving him back down in his chair, keeping a strong grip on his shoulders. “You want to tell us where the hell you’ve been all night? Who you were with?” He leaned over his shoulder, whispering but still loud enough for Rick to hear. “Maybe you’ll tell _him_ how you got your fourteen-year-old hands on the bottle of liquor that’s got you so goddamn pie-eyed right now.”

 

“Carl?” Rick looked at his son, studying his eyes silently for a second or two. “You’ve been drinking?”

 

“Don’t do that,” Carl snapped, speaking to his father for the first time since he’d gotten sick. “Don’t pretend that you suddenly give a shit about me.”

 

“What?” Rick looked stunned, embarrassed. “Why would you... ? Carl, of course I—”

 

“No,” he stopped him, pulling away from the table, freeing himself from Negan's grip. He stumbled over his own feet, nearly losing his balance. “No you don’t. Things haven’t been the same between us since… ” He paced the floor, sighing heavily as he raked his hands through his long hair in frustration. “You never talk about it. About _her_.”

 

Negan watched the color drain out of Rick’s already pale face, worried for a moment that he might actually keel over.

 

Rick drew in a deep, shuddering breath, reaching up to brush away the clammy sweat that dotted his forehead. “We can do that, Carl.” His voice was as unsteady as his son’s legs. “We can talk. Sit down here and we’ll have us a long—”

 

“Don’t you get it?” Carl growled, his pupils so dilated his eyes appeared more black than blue. “It's too late now. I don’t need you anymore. I _don’t need you_ to protect me anymore. I can take care of myself. Look at you,” he laughed, pointing at him with tears floating in his eyes. “You look like shit. You’re weak. Pathetic.”

 

“Stop it,” Negan warned, his gaze glued to Rick as he just sat there, his eyes staring emptily at the floor in front of him, his face, his spirit shattered even more than it was before. “That’s enough.”

 

“You probably couldn’t protect me anyway,” Carl continued, ignoring Negan's pleas. “You can’t protect Judith. You probably couldn’t even pick her up now if you had to. She has no one. No dad. No... _mom_.” He paused, something in his expression changing, his eyes more intense, darker. “She’s gone now,” he whispered coldly. “Because of _you_!” he shouted. “You were all that we had left. We counted on you!”

 

“Carl!”

 

“But now…” His body stiffened as he wiped away the tears that tracked his alcohol flushed cheeks. “Now you’re nothing.” Turning toward the hallway, he looked over his shoulder as he walked away. “We’d be fine if you died.”

 

***

 

“Judith,” Negan sighed as he sat down on the edge of the couch to calm down, the brown tail of her little soft monkey sticking out from underneath. Resting his elbows on his knees, he leaned over and picked it up, inhaling the sweet baby scent she’d embedded into every fiber of the dirty-faced stuffy, the tuft of fuzzy hair on top of its head tickling his nose. “Goddammit,” he whispered, a flood of rare, unexpected tears stinging his eyes as he pulled the toy in, hugging it close to his chest.

 

If it wasn’t for her, there was little doubt that he’d be back at Simon’s, sleeping on his couch, mooching cold beer from his fridge. His attraction to Rick, his dream of a fast and dirty roll in the hay with his cowboy, his sole purpose for being here, it was long gone. And it wasn’t because he’d gotten sick and lost weight. It wasn’t because he thought there was something wrong with him now. It was because he realized there was a lot more to him than that. The man was human. He’d seen him at his lowest. Been by his side at his weakest. And he just wasn’t willing to try and take advantage of that anymore.

 

He knew Rick had Shane. He wasn’t so much of an ass that he wouldn’t help his friend when he needed it. And Carl, well he would either straighten out or he wouldn’t. Teenagers, in his opinion, were hard, if not damn near impossible to steer in one direction or the other. But Judith, he knew she needed him. And truth be told, he needed her just as much.

 

If anyone were to ever come out and ask him, hell no, he’d deny it in a heartbeat. But there was no denying it to himself. He loved that little girl with all his heart.

 

Just as he sat back and put his feet up on the ottoman, wiping his eyes to read the morning newspaper, hoping the distraction would somehow put this morning’s fiasco out of his mind for a few minutes, he heard a loud thud down the hallway. _What is it now?_

 

“Rick?” Negan tapped lightly on the half-open bathroom door and stuck his head in. “You okay?” The shower was running, the sink filled with a tangled mass of brown hair. He turned off the electric clippers that were left buzzing on the counter. “Rick?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

Negan stepped over his week-old dirty clothes in the floor and walked over to the shower. Rick was behind the half-wall, sitting on the cold, hard tile, his wet back plastered with chunks of freshly cut hair. He watched as a thin ribbon of diluted blood travelled a mazy trail with the water, tinting it pink as it swirled down the drain. “I heard you fall. Are you hurt bad? Let me—”

 

“I don’t need your help,” he answered, his tone void of any emotion as the hot, steamy water pummeled against the flat of his naked ribcage, soaking the bandages wrapped around what was left of his armless left shoulder.

 

Frustrated, Negan stepped into the shower stall, fully clothed, catching Rick’s beardy chin in his hand to get a good look at him. “What happened?” he questioned, his fingers assessing the depth of the small cut above his left eyebrow.

 

“I’m _weak_ ,” he mumbled, reciting Carl’s words from earlier. “I’m pathetic.” Fatigued past the point of exhaustion, he tried to stand, falling back down on one knee. “But I guess you already knew that.”

 

“No,” Negan answered, tucking his hand beneath Rick’s armpit, his other sliding around his chest. “I don’t know anything of the goddamn kind.” He pulled him up, getting him to a standing position.

 

“Get away from me!” Rick took a feeble swing at him, a swing that Negan easily dodged. “I don’t need your help. I don’t want it.”

 

“What _do_ you want?” Negan challenged, angrily swiping the burning spray of water out of his eyes. “ _You tell me_. I’m tired of guessing. I’m tired of this _cowboy’s don’t cry_ bullshit. I’m tired of all the fucking Grimes’ stubbornness in this house. I'm tired of your _friend_ talking down to me all the damn time. I’m tired of this whole goddamn thing. You want to sit here on your ass and wallow around in this _lesser than_ life you think you have now, you’re gonna have to do it without me.”

 

Rick looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.

 

“Yeah,” Negan nodded, breathing in the steam that clouded the space between them. “You’ve been dealt a pretty shitty hand here. You damn sure won’t hear me vetoing that shit. But, Rick... it’s the hand you’ve been dealt. You don’t have to like it. But you sure as shit need to accept it.” He tugged at his shirt, the fabric sticking to him like a clammy, second skin. “So what is it that you want? What do you want?” he repeated after a moment’s silence, shouting this time, his voice pinging back and forth between the brick stone tiles.

 

“I want—” Rick caught himself, shaking his head as his fingers clenched into a tight fist again. “Get out of here!” He swung on him again, his knuckles grazing the prickly edge of Negan’s jaw. “Get out!” Another blow caught him in the shoulder, another to his chest. He punched again and again, ignoring the blood on his knuckles, cuts and scratches made by the buttons on his shirt. “Get out.” Again. “Get—” Again and again and again and again. “—out.”

 

When he collapsed against him, Negan circled his arms around him, that strong hold the only thing keeping him upright. “Tell me what you want.”

 

That was when Rick finally found his tears, deep shaking sobs racking his entire, exhausted body, making it nearly impossible to breathe. “I want my arm back,” he cried. “I want my farm, my family, my life... I want my wife back.” He buried his face in Negan’s shirt, weeping like a child, his shoulders rising and falling with nearly a year’s worth of pent up grief. “I want everything back the way it used to be before... before I destroyed it all.”

 

“Rick.” Negan rested his chin on top of his head, running his fingers through his cropped brown hair. “That thing with Carl…” He reached behind him, squeezing a handful of soap into his palm, beginning the long overdue task of washing Rick’s skin. “That was just the alcohol talking. Trust me. He doesn’t blame you. Not really. I think he blames himself more than anything.” He scrubbed his back and chest, careful not to pull too hard around his bandages. “He thinks you blame him, too.”

 

Another wave of tears, cascading without number, fell from Rick’s eyes as he shook his head. “It all happened so fast.”

 

“Carl told me how it happened.” Negan flipped a bottle of shampoo with one hand, shaking it, flipping the cap and squeezing a small dollop into his palm, massaging it into his scalp with his fingertips. “It was just an accident.”

 

“But if I hadn’t—”

 

“It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Hell, that’s _why_ they call them accidents.” He turned them both around, letting the hot spray of water rinse his hair, catching a rogue trickle of lather with his thumb before it reached his eye. “Same thing applies to _this_ accident,” he gestured to the bandaged stump at his shoulder. “You _will_ get through this.” He looked down at him, wrinkling his chin with a shrug. “You might not be able to do everything the same way you used to, but with a little help, you’ll figure it out.”

 

Rick dropped his lashes, screening his wet eyes before looking back up, his gaze weighted with unasked questions. _How? When? Why?_

 

“Will you let me help you?”

 

Rick opened his mouth to speak, more than likely ready to argue or flat out refuse, but when he dropped his head to the tile floor, his eyes following the suds as the water chased them down the drain, he surprised himself _and_ Negan with a faint nod of his head.

  



End file.
